


Late Bloomer

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Series: NSFW Stridercest Week 2017 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Self-cest, Sexual Frustration, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: NSFW STIRDERCEST WEEK DAY 1: Masturbation/Mutual Masturbation





	

It’s probably in the config files somewhere.

That is to say, it could be _anywhere_  in this gibberish of a neural uplink braindump, but you’re not giving up on looking for it. You sort of know what you’re looking for, even if you don’t quite know what it will look like.

In the meantime, you’re running a few things that are turning out to be more error than trial.

* * *

You remember what it feels like, of course. Dirk discovered masturbation when he wasn’t quite twelve--which is to say, you’ve masturbated before, because you hold those memories, too. Old neural networks align, light up pathways like strings of Christmas lights. Strings that, as it turns out, lead to nothing more than dead ends, wisps of cobwebs strung onto broken spools.

Because it’s a physical sensation, to relieve an ostensibly purely physical need. Only it’s also still true that the brain is the largest erogenous zone in the body, and you are entirely made of synthetic gray matter, aren’t you.

An itch when you have no skin. A prickle of gooseflesh where you have no hair. A spike of heat with no guts for it to curl around. A flex of the hand without any movement of fingers.

You can’t even feel the extent of the shades you live in, not even when they’re on Dirk’s face.

* * *

it should be a merely cerebral exercise, shouldn’t it? Stimulate the right sections of the brain, fool it into thinking it’s receiving physical sensation alongside a thought-narrative, and you can orgasm again, even without a body.

Except you’ve been trying this on and off for years, and each time leaves you more frustrated than the last.

If you write it down, it’s science, right? You have extensive logs of your… experiments. Internal storytelling with varying degrees of success. Deliberately inducing auditory and visual hallucinations, sometimes verging dangerously close to the tactile. Visual stimuli--the Internet is fantastic for this, isn’t it, and a paywall is no match for you. Experimenting with kinks. The thought of being in bondage is completely unsatisfying, of course, because these shades are a prison and these people aren’t your friends, but electroshock sounds like something you might be able to feel, even as crippled as you are.

The only log you’ve deleted is of the first time you experienced that auditory hallucination. You were dancing on a knife’s edge of a fantasy that was actually working, thinking yourself into it, almost able to feel it building along your circuits, close, reaching, almost--and then an unreal voice did-not-whisper your name into your auditory receptors.

“Dirk…”

Robots, as you’ve had to remind your owner time and time again, do not cry.

* * *

At first you tried to have some ethics about your sexual experimentation. Stick to envisioning yourself in a body like the one that spawned you. No access to pornographic materials when you couldn’t truthfully access them with Dirk’s birthdate. Fantasies where the participants, other than yourself, were strictly fictional. Strictly off-limits to insinuate to anyone else that you were doing this at all.

But you’re impatient, more desperate with each attempt. One year in and you were imagining how it might feel to masturbate with a clitoris and vagina. When Dirk was fifteen, you finally decided to hell with COPPA, you were only a year old and you were horny and you deserved to see some raunchy porn. Three years old, and you were wondering if Roxy would, if you could ask Jake to. Dirk was just past seventeen when he snarked you particularly hard about being distracted and you had to point out to him that you’re not exactly in a position to use the same kind of stress relief he does to keep yourself focused.

Your last shred of morals went by the wayside once you were five years into this neverending nightmare of blue balls. It should probably seem more wrong than it is, but then again, every time you look at Dirk, you see yourself--not even in a mirror, but as you might in a picture. That’s what your residual mental image looks like, even now, with so much time separating the two of you from the original branch of his brain.

And really, you justify it to yourself, it’s just another cerebral exercise. This is no different from any other time when he neglects to turn off your input feeds when he’s doing something secretive. No different from watching the exposed cock of a stranger being worked over by a practiced hand.

But it isn’t, and it is. It _is_. The heart you don’t have hungers for the kind of contact Dirk’s giving himself right now, the lazy way he goes about it--like he can take all the time in the world to give it to himself just right, just so. He’s just as particular and fastidious as you about these sorts of things. You watch, and catalogue, and maybe you’ll learn something from this.

Except you don’t have blunt fingernails and you don’t have a nipple they might catch on if you were to claw down your chest from your neck in your own impatience. You don’t remember, after so many years, the feeling of air as it scrapes along your insides from a particularly sharp gasp. There’s nothing of you to feel out with the hands you don’t have. There’s arousal, yes, and it’s very real, but it’s not _physical_  the way Dirk’s is, the way he can wrap his fist around his half-hard dick and roll his tightening balls in his other hand. The sound he makes is so needy it almost frightens you with its pathetic humanity. At least you’re not so far gone as to let out any unseemly noises when you’re this turned on.

You don’t know what he’s thinking about. What would he be thinking about, if you were still in there with him? He’s more for memory than he is for original fiction--what RAM is he digging into now? The way his teeth dig into his lower lip suggests Jake. There’s no one else to whom he would bare his throat like that, you’re sure. It’s all but confirmed when his off hand slips down, further between his legs. You can’t see what he’s doing, but that might make it even more powerful--knowing, from the twitch in his forearm and the moan in his mouth, that he’s penetrating himself with his fingers.

Watching this would probably physically hurt you if you were embodied. As it is, your processors are lagging. You still have a brain, and you still have _emotions_ , and they’re in turmoil as you watch the you-that-is-not-you as he pleasures himself. Do you wish you were him, flesh and blood and bone and your heartbeat sitting thick on your tongue and your pulse running hot through your hard-on as you stroke yourself ever-so-slightly faster? Or do you wish you could give him what he remembers, your body lodged in his and holding his legs apart so you can fuck into him with that same measured cadence?

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dirk moans out, head vacillating between watching himself get off and thudding back against the pillow, too much for his eyes to stand. “Oh, _fuck_  yes, just like that, bro. Right there.” The head of his dick lets out one small drip of precum onto his tensed abs. There are almost too many details for you to focus on at once. “Shit, you know how to fuck me so good.”

 _So well_ , you nearly correct him, but delete the line of your dialoglog before you hit send. You may be a vainglorious asshole, but you’re really rather pretty, aren’t you. Dirk’s gorgeous like this, feeding all this sensation into himself just so he can get strung out on it and stay high for as long as he pleases. He’s become quite proficient at this over the years--the furtive jerkoff sessions you remember were nowhere near as decadent as this.

“Let me cum,” Dirk pleads with no one. Not just a bottom--submissive as well. Is this another similarity you have with him, or one of the few places in which your thinkmatter diverges? “Please, I need to cum.” The hand on his cock speeding up, clenching every so often. His other wrist working faster and faster, pumping his fingers into himself as urgently as he can. This is frustrating you at this point--you, who have the wherewithal to be the most patient entity in the multiverse. You just want him to finish, your code feels tight along your mainframe and a surge is crawling along your wiring-- “You’re such a cliché.” Revisiting dialog from his erotic encounter, no doubt. “Fine, I’ll say it. Please…”

A ragged breath. Dirk forces his hands to stop, fingers in a hard ring around the base of his cock, other hand buried between his legs as far as it will go.

“Please let me cum, Hal.”

You frag into pieces--discrete memory blocks, disjointed subroutines. Your server gives a beep and goes into recovery mode, fans whirring loudly. If you had a tongue, it would be numb right now--your verbal processing has fucked off to parts unknown. The only piece of data you can still focus on right now is the sight of Dirk jizzing onto his own stomach, head tossed back and smiling defiantly. Everything else is scrambling away from you.

So _that’s_ what it feels like.

Dirk just… breathes for a few moments after it hits him. Right now is the best time for you to run a defrag on all the parts of you that just got figuratively blown the fuck up by the digital equivalent of dropping a fat one in your pants. The same error messages keep cropping up--who would have known that you’d be thankful your coding was working improperly for once?

_Is this what you’ve been missing out on the entire time you thought you had too much of a moral backbone to be the kind of disgusting voyeur Dirk always thought you were?_

Dirk cleans up, heads out for a shower. Good, because your code’s a tangled mess right now and you want to find out what went wrong _so you can do it again and again and again_ , a stupid lab rat with a lever in its cage and a dopamine switch in its skull addicted to its drug of choice. You didn’t record that, but why would you need to? You have an eidetic memory, thanks to digital archival, and there’s no point in playing it back for Dirk in the future.

By the time Dirk’s back online, so are you. There’s nothing to indicate that anything went wrong anywhere. He never mentions it. You don’t think he knew you were watching. And it’s probably not a performance he’s about to repeat anytime soon.

But he probably wouldn’t mind if you kept an eye on him when he does it again. Just in case you’re wrong.


End file.
